


Twice

by arden_scott



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock, Come Marking, Coming In Pants, Coming twice, Dirty Talk, M/M, Nipple Play, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Case Sex, Rimming, Top John, also surprise fluff oops?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 20:26:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2665259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arden_scott/pseuds/arden_scott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John presses close, brushes his lips against Sherlock’s. “Want you, love,” he murmurs. “Wanna feel you.”</p><p>Sherlock sighs at this and melts into the door. This last case had lasted nearly three weeks, and Sherlock had maintained his ‘abstinence when working’ rule, only going as far as simple, chaste kisses for the duration. So now, oh, now, Sherlock is practically gasping for it.</p><p> </p><p>Post-case sex, plain and simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twice

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote an anon for kinklock on tumblr and decided to flesh it out into this... It's my first time writing porn, so any concrit would be wonderful. Self-beta'd, so all mistakes are mine.

 

The case is over, but Sherlock’s brain is still racing a mile a minute, seeing observing categorising everything--the smudges of mud that say Mrs Hudson had stopped by the bakery two blocks north; the disturbed hatstand that say Mrs Hudson is gone for the weekend; the patch of discolouration at the outer edge of the bottom of the flat’s door that say John’s been buying more groceries lately...the list goes on.

John walks in first, still flushed and grinning, babbling about how brilliant Sherlock had been, how incredible, how amazing. The words pour through Sherlock like hot tea on a cold day, warming him deeply from his core. He is still riding the high of a successful case and John’s praise when he realises John has stopped speaking and is instead staring at him with unconcealed heat.

Suddenly there’s a door against Sherlock’s back. _Wood--oak, stained a deep brown, marred with chips and gouges and scratches from the years gone by._

John’s hands are on his body now, carefully undoing the buttons of his Belstaff, easing the heavy wool off his shoulders and hanging the coat on the rack. Oh, how he loves John’s hands, so sure and steady and strong. Now they’re running up his torso, sliding over his chest _(pectoralis major)_ and gripping his shoulders _(clavicle, trapezius, supraspinatus, scapula)_ before easing down again, splaying over his ribs _(four, five, six, seven)_ , each finger a burning point of contact.

John presses close, brushes his lips against Sherlock’s. “Want you, love,” he murmurs. “Wanna feel you.”

Sherlock sighs at this and melts into the door. This last case had lasted nearly three weeks, and Sherlock had maintained his ‘abstinence when working’ rule, only going as far as simple, chaste kisses for the duration. So now, oh, now, Sherlock is practically gasping for it. His head lolls to the side, baring his neck. He wants John’s mouth, his lips and teeth and tongue painting a trail of bruises over the delicate skin of his throat.

Instead, there are fingers plucking at the buttons of his shirt, spreading the silk. It slides across his skin, catching gently on the sparse hair sprinkled across his chest. Cool air _(22 degrees, 55% humidity)_ washes across his overheated skin. His nipples pebble and tighten and _oh!_ they ache already. Sherlock arches his back, tosses his head, moans and begs John to touch him, anywhere, however he wants. His cock thickens in his pants, distending the neat line of his trousers.

John steps even closer, wedging a knee between Sherlock’s spread legs, pressing it firmly against his crotch. Sherlock can feel John’s own erection, a thick, hard line against his thigh. At last, Sherlock’s mind is going blank, extraneous details falling away like background noise. Unbidden, a high whine escapes Sherlock’s lips as his hips buck up, seeking friction.

John chuckles, soft and low. Predatory. “What do you want, love? Hm? You want my cock?” He shoves closer, a quick push of his erection against Sherlock’s hip, a heady pressure against Sherlock’s groin. The detective moans, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the doctor’s body. One hand lands on John’s arse and tugs him closer; the other hand cups John’s neck and pulls his head down.

Lips meet furiously in a bruising kiss, teeth clacking and noses smashing. There is nothing gentle or loving about this, just the primal urge to claim and be claimed, the need to fuck and come. It’s just the way Sherlock likes it right after a case.

Sherlock breaks away from the kiss with a gasp that rises to a whine, eyes snapping open as John’s fingers brush over his nipple. Electricity sparks through Sherlock’s body. For long, tortuous moments, John gently circles one small brown nipple, spiralling closer. Sherlock’s chest heaves as though he’s running a marathon, rising and falling as his arousal spikes, as John gets closer and closer to where Sherlock wants him to be and--

_“Ohh, yes, John!”_

John laughs softly and does it again, pinches the small peaked bud while sucking at Sherlock’s collar bone. Again and again, those fingers circle and stroke and squeeze, and Sherlock is certain his knees are going to give out. His cock twitch in his pants, positively dripping with precome.

“You like that, Sherlock?” John whispers against his ear, nipping at his lobe. “Tell me, do you like it?”

Sherlock nods furiously; he can’t speak, can’t even make a sound. He needs all the air he can get because whatever John is doing to him is _good_ , oh, god, it’s so _good_ he can barely breathe.

And then it suddenly stops. John removes his hands and lips, steps away from Sherlock with his fists on his hips, one eyebrow raised. Sherlock gapes at him from where he’s plastered against the door. He knows, in some distant recess of his mind, that he should be embarrassed about how desperate and utterly ridiculous he looks: shirt gaping open over his surging chest, trousers obscenely distended and pants soaked, a burning flush spreading over his cheeks and throat and chest. And yet the only thing he can think is that he needs John touching him again or else he may burst into flame. He thinks to warn John about his impending combustion, but before he can open his mouth, John speaks.

“I asked you a question, Sherlock. That means I expect an answer.” John’s voice is firm but not cruel, a relic of Captain Watson that makes Sherlock’s cock throb.

Sherlock has to clear his throat a few times before he can answer. “Yes. Yes, I liked what you were doing. P-please, John. More.”

Just like that John was back again, simultaneously sucking bruises and nipping bites that he soothed with the flat of his tongue and rubbing, rolling, pinching Sherlock's nipples between his steady surgeons' fingers. Sherlock's hips twitched, seeking friction but John had moved his leg out of the way and now Sherlock has nothing to rub against, nowhere to rut. His hips still flex, though, fucking at the empty air, and the feeling of his cock sliding across the cotton of his pants is still this side of pleasurable.

“Come on, Sherlock,” John rumbles against his ear before sucking his lobe between his teeth. “You look so good like this, so beautiful. God, I just wanna see you on your knees. You’re so good at that, Sherlock, so good at taking all of my cock in your pretty mouth. Do you want that, too? Want my cock? I’ll even come on your face, if you’d like. I know you like it when I do that, when I mark you like that.”

Sherlock whines, high and needy, because _god_ , he wants that, wants to fall to the floor and feel the weight of John’s cock on his tongue, feel the warmth of John’s come on his cheeks and lips. His balls are high and tight to his body, orgasm coiling at the base of his spine at the thought of John taking him like that, beautiful, wonderful John who always knows what Sherlock wants, who always knows how to take care of Sherlock after a case.

“Come for me,” John whispers, twisting hard at Sherlock’s nipple. “Go on, love, I’ve got you. Come.”

It’s too much; Sherlock’s orgasm hits him like a ten-ton lorry and he nearly doubles over, grasping John as tight as he can just to stay on his feet. He howls John’s name as his cock pulses over and over, hot and slick, spoiling his pants with his come. He feels utterly filthy, and he loves it.

It takes a few moments before Sherlock’s brain comes back online again, before the haze drifts away and Sherlock notices that John has wrapped him up in his arms to support him. John’s hand is gently stroking his arm, his side, as he murmurs nonsense into his hair. The doctor is so distracted by Sherlock’s slack body in his arms that he doesn’t see it. Saying nothing, Sherlock grasps John’s hand and draws it downward between his legs. With a sharp gasp, John’s head jerks up.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John moans, cupping Sherlock’s groin tighter. “You’re still hard. Oh, yes, still hard for me, my good boy.” He gently rubs at Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock whimpers at the damp stickiness against his heated skin.

“More,” Sherlock croaks out, pressing John’s hand closer to his still swollen cock. “Need more, please.”

“‘Course you do. Of course. Insatiable slut, you are, just begging for my cock.” John’s voice is a low growl, echoing through Sherlock’s chest. He grabs his detective’s hands and drags him away from the door. A shiver runs down Sherlock’s spine at John’s impatience, anticipation and excitement rippling under his skin as he is drawn chest to chest with his boyfriend.

John stares up at Sherlock for a moment, catching and holding his gaze. _He is beautiful this close_ , Sherlock thinks. _With his sandy hair shot through with gold and silver, with his eyes lust-blown black and rimmed in navy._ So beautiful he turns Sherlock into a poetic fool, but at this moment, Sherlock cannot find it within himself to care. He feels as though he’s been stripped down to nothing under John’s eyes, and it’s oddly soothing; no more must he hide everything he thinks and feels, because John can see it all, can see the very muscles and bones and everything in between. John can see everything, so Sherlock can let it all go.

Slowly, slowly, John leans in until there’s just the barest amount of space between them, until Sherlock nearly goes cross-eyed trying to maintain eye contact.  

“Do you want me?” John murmurs, his breath whispering over Sherlock’s downturned face.

“Oh, god, yes,” Sherlock replies hoarsely.

Never breaking his gaze, John nods slowly. “Good. Bed.”

There is a moment when everything freezes, when neither of them moves,not to blink, not to breathe, afraid to break the stillness. It unspools between them, pulling thinner and thinner and tauter and tauter until it simply cannot take it anymore and it snaps. In a flurry of motion they fall together, arms wrapping tight about waists and shoulders, mouths meeting in the first real kiss since their game began, the first real kiss that wasn’t a clash of lips and teeth. John slants his mouth against Sherlock’s in the most perfect way, a slick, filthy slide that makes Sherlock moan. The moment his lips part, John’s tongue slips in and twines with his own, muffling the pitiful sounds coming from the back of Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock’s feels his face burn with a heady fusion of want and embarrassment as he writhes against John, grabbing his arse and pulling him tighter as John sucks on his tongue. He wants that mouth everywhere, back on his throat or down his chest or between his legs, it doesn’t matter, he just _wants_.

They make for the bedroom, but it’s slow going; every other step ends with someone plastered against the wall with a skull-rattling shove, being snogged within an inch of his life. Somewhere along the way, Sherlock’s shirt is slipped of his shoulders and left behind. There will be bruises and bumps tomorrow, but for now, Sherlock could hardly feel it with all the chemicals pulsing through his limbs, so he really, truly doesn’t care.

With a quick push, Sherlock is flat on his back on the bed, John standing between his legs. The grin John shoots down at Sherlock is crooked and lascivious and enough to make Sherlock’s cock jump and strain against his ruined pants.

“Please, John, please, just-- _fuck!_ Give me something, anything, god, I need it!”

“Is that so?” John purred, shifting his weight to one foot, hand on one hip.

Sherlock knows this game, knows it’s designed to make him desperate and delirious, and he falls for it every time. Already he’s half out of his mind, smouldering heat beneath his skin and radio silence in his brain. “ _Yes!_ I--I need it, I need your fingers, your--your cock, filling me up, please! Your fingers, your mouth, anything, I’m begging you, just touch me!”

John’s gasp is startling in the silence of the flat, but it sounds so good echoing in Sherlock’s bedroom. He has one hand roughly palming his cock through his pants, the other hand tightening on Sherlock’s thigh, and Sherlock just smirks. He knows how to play dirty, too, knows that John will do anything he wants if he only begs. It’s a small price to pay when the reward is _this._

But the victory doesn’t last long; in seconds John has tugged off his shoes, undone his trousers, yanked them down with his pants, and flipped him over arse up on the bed. A work-roughened palm lands on each cheek and Sherlock has just the barest warning before John’s tongue was _there_ , right _there!_ hot and wet, laving over his hole and pressing just inside. The contrast between his slick tongue and rough stubble is electrifying. Sherlock feels frantic now, he’s all over the place, trying to regain his footing over the side of the bed and push up closer, hands scrabbling in the duvet, cock dribbling precome on the mattress, and the whole time he’s damn near sobbing. “Oh, oh, oh! John, oh god, so good, so-- _oh, yes!_ That, again, more!”

By the time John pulls away, Sherlock is shaking like a leaf and possibly harder than he’s ever been in his life. He rolls over to regard John, who is flushed and still somehow fully clothed, although the thick line of his erection seems to be threatening to split his trousers at any moment.

“ _Fuck me,_ ” Sherlock demands, enunciating each letter as clearly as he can, because there can be no confusion right now.

John shudders. His voice has gone deep and rough with arousal. “Yeah. Yeah, gonna fuck you. Open yourself for me.”

Sherlock scrambles to obey, flinging himself across the bed to rifle through the bedside table for the bottle of lube. He finds it and flips the cap with shaking hands, dripping the viscous liquid over his fingers. Meanwhile, John begins to strip, precise, economical motions designed to get his clothes off as quickly as possible.

Kneeling on the bed with spread legs, he reaches back and down, teasing himself with a single index finger before pressing inside. He thrusts gently for a little while before adding another, relishing the slight stretch and burn. He knows John is watching him, toying lazily with his cock, so he decides to give him a little show. Biting his lip, he sinks even deeper on his fingers, crooking them to find his prostate. He tosses his head back as the pleasure zings through his body, heavy-lidded eyes falling on John. A soft sigh is allowed out  as he swivels his hips and scissors his fingers wider.  

John groans, and Sherlock catches the tight squeeze he gives the base of his cock before dropping his hand away. “Bloody tease. How much longer do you need?”

“Mmm, I could go for ages...” A sly smile curls Sherlock’s lips as he withdraws his fingers. “But you can fuck me now, if you want.”

In a split second Sherlock is on his back again, but this time, John is hovering over him, looking as absolutely ravenous as Sherlock feels. The sheets are cool and smooth against his skin, and he spreads his legs wider, feeling wanton and needy and utterly unabashed. Reaching up, he guides John’s cock to his hole, rubbing the head against the puckered entrance until John gently brushes his hand away. Sucking his lip between his teeth, John begins to push in.

The initial stretch stings; after all, a cock is a lot thicker than a couple fingers. But John takes it slow, his eyes on Sherlock’s face, presumably watching for any signs of discomfort or pain.

“Fuck, Sherlock. You’re so tight. Am I hurting you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes back. “Love it when it hurts. Feels so good.” And it does. It’s been so long since he’s been stretched this wide, filled this deep. He feels like he’s being split open but he’s not in agony, John isn’t doing him any damage. Fortunately for him, John understands what he means, and he accepts this. Beautiful, wonderful, perfect John.

John bottoms out after a moment, and stills, visibly steeling himself against the sensations. Sherlock would be the same way, had he not already come tonight. As it was, he knew it would not take him very long once John got going.

“Can you move?”

John looks down at Sherlock, eyes glassy, mouth slack and kiss-swollen. He looks deliciously debauched, approaching shattered, and it’s because of Sherlock. _It’s because of me._

Torturously slow, he draws back, holds for a moment, then thrusts back in, hard. The impact rattles up Sherlock’s spine, and the air rushes out of his lungs all at once in a choked half-moan. Before he can get his breath back, John is doing it again, moving against him, as slow and inexorable, as the tide.

“ _Fuck,_ ” John slurs, “You’re so good, Sherlock. So good for me. Love you like this, so tight and hot around me. Fuckin’ gorgeous.”

“Harder,” Sherlock grits out, reaching around to dig his fingers into John’s arse. “Come on, fucking give it to me. I’m not going to break.”

So John complies, angling his hips to strike Sherlock’s prostate and pumping faster, dragging a ragged cry from deep in Sherlock’s chest.

“That good enough for you, Sherlock?” John chuckles breathlessly. Sherlock tightens his pelvic floor muscles in retaliation, and chokes out a laugh of his own at the look of surprise on John’s face.

In truth, it’s absolutely flawless. John is splendid, fills him in just the right places, touches him just the right way. He makes everything disappear, all the details that swirl around Sherlock’s mind like snow in a snowglobe, all the information that sometimes makes it hard to think, hard to even breathe. John is the best thing that has ever happened to him, and he loves him.

He glances up at John and the look on his face is heart-wrenching, all love and pride and suddenly Sherlock realises that he had said all that out loud. A flash of embarrassment runs through Sherlock then-- begging John to fuck him is one thing; spouting off about absurd _feelings_ is another thing entirely.

Before the mortification of such a maudlin display can set in, John leans in and seals his lips over Sherlock’s in a gentle kiss, grinding his hips in a slow figure eight. “I love you, too.”

Sherlock quirks his lips in a small smile and ducks his eyes; those words still get to him, after all this time. John’s soft laugh bubbles against Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock is convinced that nothing can ruin this night for them.

And then John stops moving.

“N-no, John, don’t stop,” Sherlock gasps, because he can’t stop, not after that, not after hearing Sherlock confess his love and confessing his own back.

“Shh, it’s okay. It’s all fine. I just need-- I need--” John grips Sherlock’s calves and lifts his legs, tucking his shoulders under Sherlock’s knees. “Deeper,” he breathes out, and it sounds like relief. “I needed you deeper.”

And it is, _oh christ,_ John’s gone deeper inside him, reached his fucking core. John slides his hands from where they were planted on the bed and laces his fingers with Sherlock’s, pressing them into the mattress as he fucks him deeper, harder. Sherlock’s ankles bounce against John’s back, and he’s careful not to put too much pressure on John’s bad shoulder, but _fuck_ if this isn’t the best damn shag of his entire life.

Sherlock can barely stand it now, the lust and the love coalescing into heat at the base of his spine. Tossing his head back against the sheets, he lets out a breathy moan. “John, I need help, I can’t--”

“I’ve got you, love.” John breathes back. Sherlock hisses as John wraps a hand around his cock for the first time this night and sets a punishing pace. “Gonna make you come, Sherlock. Gonna fuck you and wank you til you come, and then I’m gonna come on your chest. Sound good?”

Sherlock’s breaths come in sharp pants now as John tugs at his cock, swipes his thumb over the slit, fucking him deep all the while. “Yes, John, please! I’m almost there, almost--”

“Let go, love, it’s okay. I’ve got you, just come, Sherlock, I’ve got you.”

“John!” Sherlock’s voice cracks as the ball of heat bursts and he comes, spilling over John’s fingers and pooling on his stomach. His arse tightens around John’s cock, vision going grey as he feels John’s cock twitch and harden further. “John, John, John, come on me, please, mark me!”

With a deep groan John pulls out, jerking himself roughly over Sherlock. “Oh, oh god, yeah, Sherlock. Yeah, yeah, y-- _ohh, Sherlock._ ”

Sherlock jolts and moans, long and low, as John’s come splashes across his chest, sticky and hot. “Yes, John, thank you...mmm, god, yes...”

His spent cock twitches in interest, but doesn’t do more than that. As John rides out the aftershocks, Sherlock swipes a finger through the mess on his belly and pops it into his mouth, suckling quietly as he watches John twitch and curse.

“Enough, you,” John pants, swatting the finger out of Sherlock’s mouth before collapsing next to him. “Going to give me a heart attack, I swear.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock leans over the side of the bed, careful to keep the rest of John’s come off the duvet or floor. He feels around for the first piece of clothing he can find--John’s undershirt--and swipes half-heartedly at the mess on his skin before dropping it back on the floor.

“Objectively speaking, you’re quite fit; I seriously doubt you’ll be having a heart attack any time soon.”

“Ta for that, Sherlock. Now come here.”

Turning over on his side, Sherlock tangling his limbs around John. He settles his head on John’s chest, listening to his heartbeat slow as the sweat cools on his skin. Immediately John curls an arm around Sherlock, his fingers landing on Sherlock’s back, stroking slowly up and down over the notches of his spine.

 _This is good,_ Sherlock thinks. He knows that soon he will have to eat and sleep, and that sooner rather than later his brain will begin rotting without another case to distract him, but for right now, things are good. He will doze here in John’s arms, the lullaby of London’s streets filling the quiet flat, John’s hands smoothing gently over his skin, until they decide to get up, shower, eat.

That time will come when it comes, an indeterminate point on the horizon. Pressing his lips to John’s skin, Sherlock snuggles in closer, closes his eyes, and drifts.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Follow me on tumblr for more Sherlock stuff and also porn ;) arden-scott.tumblr.com


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